Deal With It
by Chronic Potterphile
Summary: You listen to those words like you listen to music. Relishing the tone and voice and the quietness in the background. Remembering them so you can keep them with you until your last moment. And just Cas. Just Cas. [DESTIEL, Coda to episode 11.21: All in the Family]
**A/N:** This is rushed but what the hell. Was supposed to be a drabble, became a fic. Apologies for mistakes.

 _\- General Audiences, No Warnings, 1445 words, SPOILER ALERT -_

* * *

 **Deal With It**

"We'll deal with it."

This has been your motto for a while now. Because it's easier to keep it buried when you can't address it yet. Because what lies underneath is perhaps messier than what you're willing to admit to. And then, in your own time, when you don't have to answer to anyone…

 _We'll deal with it._

From the doorway to Sam's room, you quietly watch him sleep. He's curled up in a blanket; wrapped up like a small child, and you remember, very vaguely, a time in the past when you'd wrap him up just like this while rocking him to sleep in your lap. He used to be tiny, then. A babbling, curious toddler with big eyes and a wide, stupid smile. Sometimes, he still looks the very same; only jumbo-sized.

His breaths are steady, his face smooth. Just like then. Except, there is one significant difference. He looks _tired_. And not just physically. He looks like all the world is a burden on his shoulders, and you're not going to lie to yourself about this one—it pretty much is.

 _We'll deal with it._

Sam will wake up like usual tomorrow, reach for his coffee, and he will be the first one to push _it_ all away for later. The fact that he prayed and prayed to God and now _fanboyed_ , only to be thrown shade at for springing Lucifer out of the cage (and fuck you, Chuck, you could have at least guided him against thinking it was you answering him). The fact that Sam's never been accepted by God and never been answered to. The fact that he had to be in the same room as his fucking tormentor even after all these years, and that all this happened just after he almost fucking died of an infection. The fact that he now knows what you have to do to make sure Amara is gone. And that is the biggest one. You're surprised he didn't rage or disagree or try to stop you.

Because, all of this. All of it is for later.

You know better than anyone that this _later_ business always comes at a price. You wish you could help; that you could gently prod Sam and get him to talk, and remove that tiredness off his face but you don't do that. You don't talk until it's all gone to shit. Until it's messy, like that church, all those years ago, when he'd wanted to die because no one dealt with it when it should have been.

Maybe this is why you and Sam are always screwing up. Maybe.

As you make your way back to your room, you don't let your mind wander to the other per– _thing_ that you've left to deal with, later.

(Is he okay? Is he still passed out? _Will_ he be okay?)

You shut the door, pull your robe away and make yourself comfortable on your bed. The memory foam is good as always, and you're all ready to drift off. However, that doesn't stop the thoughts that are currently cycling in your head, without any visible end to them. Thoughts about… thoughts about _him_.

He's okay. He's going to be okay (we'll deal with it). Sure, Chuck pulled Lucifer out into Nick's body and—

 _Adios._

Yeah, _he's_ gonna be fine. Both him and Sam. After a while (maybe never), but they'll live. They'll live (when you almost didn't). Right? You're probably not going to be here to see them like that, though. You're not going to be around to see Sammy be all right again. To see _him_ —

Your breath catches in your chest and you sit back up.

Before you know it, the robe is back on, the warm familiarity of it feeling good on your skin. You're out of your room, walking down the hallway, quietly, because you have more than one guest now and this is just _private_. You keep walking until you reach your destination— _his_ room.

The door is open. It was shut the last you looked but now it's slightly ajar, so you can see a strip of what's inside, but…

Your heart jumps up to your throat and you don't know why. You just want to say goodbye. Just have a moment before you all have to go to war. And this is not… this is not—

"Dean."

The whole world halts for a moment and you have to struggle to breathe. He was passed out when Chuck pulled Lucifer out. Has been like that ever since and when did he wake up?

 _So long… so long…_

"Are you there?"

You don't reply. You don't know what to tell him. Why are you here in the middle of the night, outside of his room, when you knew he was out cold? And after telling him off so many times for watching you sleep?

"Dean."

He says it again. Kinder, this time, and there is something else. No one ever calls your name like that. Not Sammy, with his concern and awe and exasperation and hero-worship all in one. Not Bobby with his coaxing and reprimanding and warmth. No, this is Cas, and he says it differently.

"I can see you, you know."

Okay, you can't keep waiting here like a creepy fucker. You chew at your lip a moment, clenching your fists, and then you clear your throat as you plaster a smile to your face. "Hey, Cas."

You look in, pushing his door open all the way and there he is, sitting on the bed, smiling softly when he sees you. He looks gaunt, hair dishevelled, but he's whole and alive and you're just so happy to see that now.

"Why were you standing outside the room for so long?" he asks you suddenly, and you realise you've been gawking at him from the doorway a whole minute now.

"Oh," you reply, surprised that you have a voice. "I… uh, you were in bad shape when Chuck…" You look away, trying to explain as you make vague gestures with your hands.

"My father was sure to heal me completely," he replies. "The unconsciousness was… what you would call, a rebooting."

And you chortle. "Never thought you'd sound like a computer someday, Cas."

He doesn't reply to that. Instead, his eyes are narrowing a little, head tilting slightly to one side. "You look like you wanted to say something."

"What? No." (I think I'm going to die. I want you to be okay. I want you to take care of Sammy. I'm sorry. I'll miss you. I fucking lo— _what_?) You are taken aback a little by your own thoughts, bombarding against your brain rapidly and, oh God, you need to leave, you need to _leave_.

You're walking away, walking away before anything else can happen and you don't turn back, don't even think until you can get to your room and push yourself underneath the covers because—

 _I love you. I love you. I love you. Iloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyou_

Your mattress dips with someone's weight. A gentle arm wraps around you and your whole body clenches, paralysed, as the smell of grass and mud surrounds you. Your eyes are screwed shut, and you don't want to think of the warm breaths ghosting over your neck, sending goosebumps everywhere, or the comforting heat in your chest at the wrongness of it all, as though this _… this_ was what was right all along.

Because, it can't be… it can't be…

"Dean."

He says it again. Like he always does.

You don't move. You're barely even able to breathe like normal. You can't, you can't—this can't happen right now. Oh God, let him think you're asleep, even if that's not really possible with you having spoken to him a minute ago…

"I know you're awake," Cas murmurs, stealing your thoughts from you. "Dean," he continues, "I love you too."

You listen to those words like you listen to music. Relishing the tone and voice and the quietness in the background. Remembering them so you can keep them with you until your last moment. And just Cas. Just Cas.

 _I love you._

You don't know what is happening and you fucking don't want to know. But when Cas falls asleep beside you, arm still enshrouding you, you listen to make sure his breaths have evened out before taking his hand in yours and interlacing your fingers together.

Because, what the hell. You're planning to become one with God's sister to save the world this time and some things you cannot deal with later. Like _this_. Loving Cas is maybe the least weird thing that has happened to you all week. All year.

All your life.

 **Fin**


End file.
